A cool, wet tear drop falls down my face
Thinking that I will never win the race,
The race of life,
So I grab the cool, blood stained knife.
While I clinch my fist,
With that knife I go over me sleek wrist.
No longer in emotional harm, but rather in physical harm.
As the wetness of my own blood runs down my arm
I think that maybe one day I can move on
Before I'm actually gone.
